


Florence Nightingale effect

by Bee4



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bee4/pseuds/Bee4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of them - the victim. The other - the savior. How will they live after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Florence Nightingale effect

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Эффект Найтингейл](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264360) by [Bee4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bee4/pseuds/Bee4). 



> Translation by Viviena for my birthday. I love u, bro <3333

 

He feels scared. Especially when they start to shake him in front of Hale’s face and scream shit like “Who should we fuck, huh? You, or this freak? Who, Hale? Him? You? You? Him?”  
  
Stiles dangles in those rough hands like a peach ready to fall off the branch. Hale’s not bunged up eye is glazed over, but when one of the hunters tears down Stiles’ shirt, Hale collects himself and wheezes out with blood bubbling on his lips “Me.”   
  
“I’ve always knew you are one hot bitch,” hunter laughs and kicks Hale under his knees, sends him sprawling to the ground.   
  
Till the very end Stiles can’t believe, that it’s not just a regular threat. Like “I’ll kill you” or “I’ll fuck your mother”. Because it’s a real life, not some porn or cheap stories that are so good for jerking off to, but make you sick with disgust right after you blow your load, like you can stain yourself just from those letters. It’s not like he sits there and thinks about it. There is no time really, everything happens so fast. But when they pick Hale up from the floor and throw him on a table chest first, Stiles still freezes dumbfounded. Like seriously? They really are going to fuck him? He must be saying it out loud, because the same hunter who called Derek a bitch sneers mockingly and glances from Stiles to his mates, neatly spreading Derek on a table. “No, you idiot, we want to give him a massage,” he says, and gets a nickname “Comedian” even though his name is Billy or something.   
  
Stiles would be glad not to watch, but he is being turned to face the show. His damn grown out hair allows them to grab onto it, preventing him from turning away, even when he informs the hunters in his typical manner that he did not sign in for any live porn action, even more so, for such an exquisite variety of it, like a real rape. Obviously, no one listens to him.   
  
Meanwhile, they tug Derek’s jeans down. Down to his ankles. Along with his underwear. His underwear is actually black, with a grey elastic and he wears high socks. It is not like Stiles is surprised by any of it, he wasn’t really expecting thongs with laces, but somehow these specific details are going to be engraved in his memory afterwards. Compromised privacy. Yes, this is how Stiles is going to call it later on “compromised privacy”. He is a virgin; he has never undressed anyone and never undressed himself for someone. But he has always thought, that those first moments, when you take off the girl’s bra, or see the guy’s cock, when a familiar person you used to see in a regular clothes stands in front of you half-naked, it is as amazing as sex that is going to follow it. It is about trust. Not like when someone tugs down your pants in the locker-room to guffaw about it. Which is exactly like what happens with Derek Hale right now. Humiliation, anger and alien stares you don’t want on your body. And hands. In lacrosse locker-room dudes are not likely to start grabbing someone’s ass out in the open. These guys, however, keep squeezing Derek’s hairy buttocks and having a sniggering discussion whether he still has his cherry unpopped, or if he is an experienced cocksucker; Billy-the-Comedian even gives it a loud slap, before aligning himself first.   
  
On his second hunter, Derek still tries to fight. That only get’s his face smashed against the hard table surface six times and taking his third, he only tightens his fists, dripping blood from his clawed hands. When Billy had pushed his dick inside him, Derek snarled, but now he barely wheezes and Stiles for some reason starts calculating the correlation between these strained gasps and uneven thrusts of the hunter. One to three, approximately. Stiles has no idea why on earth he does that, maybe just a way not to lose it completely, keep himself from analyzing what he actually witnesses and why he is painfully hard from it. The thing Derek Hale will never find out about, he hopes.   
  
The fourth hunter doesn’t go for it right away. While the third one wipes himself with the edge of Hale’s t-shirt, the fourth takes out the bullet from a clip. It’s form and color are easy to recognize – wolfsbane bullet; Argents have plenty of those. For a moment Stiles can’t figure out why would they need one now. Hunter’s buddies don’t seam to get it also, as they watch him with confused curiosity. They still don’t get it even when he rips the condom wrap.   
  
“Don’t want to get this bitch knocked up?” snorts one of them. Billy watches a rubber stretching on a cock and adds mockingly:  
  
“What are you afraid of, dumbass? They can’t even get STDs.”  
  
The hunter smirks and jerks his eyebrows wickedly. Then he takes out the plug of a bullet cartridge and starts sprinkling himself with wolfsbane powder like with a saltcellar right on top of the condom.   
  
“Oh god,” Stiles blurts out, feeling a chill spreading in his guts. “The fuck guys? It’s just… hell… don’t. Please. He got it already. That’s enough.”  
  
He only gets indifferent advice to shut his mouth.   
  
Derek heavily lifts up his head from a table, dazedly tries to look over his shoulder, watches as empty bullet case goes rolling on the floor and Stiles can’t watch it any longer. There is a furious roar, cracking of that goddamn table, curses, sounds of hard hits, more clatter of some kind, howling and groaning, but no one can make Stiles watch it anymore. It is horrible enough to just listen to; his hard on, thank God, is long gone and his testicles seam to try to retract inside his body.   
  
When someone delivers a blow to his face, he squints even more, twists on the floor, covering his head with his hands. There is a kick to the kidneys and he chokes from the piercing pain, coughing into a dirty floor, and even when it gets quiet, and no one hits anyone anymore, he still lies quietly pretending to be a corpse. He cautiously opens his eyes some time later, to find out that the hunters are gone. Left them in this ruined depot with no cars and cellphones.   
  
Derek passed out. Where he is not covered in blood, his skin is sickly grey, dotted with big sweat drops and black swirls of wolfsbane rot, already curling over his thighs and abdomen.   
  
He has a big uncut cock framed by a thick even fur, and Stiles, trying to pull the underwear and jeans up again, swears under his breath, when he has to take it in his hands, warm and soft, to tuck it in. Thank you dear God, that Derek Hale is unconscious and will never know how you were hiding his junk and pinched it with a zipper at least twice, because your hands were shaking so badly.  
  
“Man, dude, wake up. Come on Derek, open your eyes,” he shakes him and slaps his cheeks at first, but then starts hitting with a fist as he already did in more than one occasion. None of it has any affect, though.   
  
“Dude, you’re scaring me here,” Stiles states nervously, dropping Derek’s heavy arm on his shoulder and tries to move him.   
  
“Damn, you weight a ton. Maybe you want to join the party and help Stiles to save your ass, no? Like in the pool, remember? It was easier in the pool, though you still weighted a ton there too. Okay, maybe not a ton, maybe half-ton,” Stiles slips on the floor sticky with blood and with a muffled curse flops gracelessly on his butt. Derek falls back and his nape collides with the concrete, which is surprisingly makes him regain his consciousness. Well some parts of it, judging from how he dumbly turns his head around, scrapes the floor and kicks out his legs, which is supposedly must be Derek Hale’s attempts to courageously stand up, to no avail. Additionally and not surprisingly he throws up the black goo intermixed with blood clots.   
  
“Just great,” Stiles grumbles and makes another attempt to pick him up. “Don’t you dare to shit yourself too. No car is going to pick us up then. I doubt that anyone will take as even now. Hold on, Derek. Hold onto me. Here we go. Come on, man. We must get out of here. We will survive in spite all those scumbags.”   
  
Hale is freakishly heavy. And terribly lumpish. After a couple of minutes Stiles’s stiff back already spasms in pain, but he stubbornly drags him away from the depot, mumbling some soothing profanities and his regular stupid-funny nonsense, though he is not entirely sure that he is not the only person listening to it.   
  
When they finally get to the highway, Stiles clearly realizes, that Derek is dying. He also realizes, that if another close person dies in his arms again, he is done. Stiles screams incoherently and angry and wind tears his curses into syllables; but the third car, an old broken-down pickup truck pulls over when he waves his hands at it. An elderly farmer glances at his face, asks no questions and allows a call from his cell.  
  
Stiles promises him money and to wash his truck’s bed from the black stuff still leaking out of Derek.   
  
When they park near the wet clinic Deaton and Scott are already waiting. Stiles has neither wish nor energy to observe the antidote enema, so he just shuffles into the waiting room, curls on the sofa and falls asleep just like that, in his grim clothes, not even washing his face and forgetting to take a piss.   
  
Scott wakes him up some time later and assures him that all his struggles were not in vane. Derek will survive.   
  


 ***

  
Indian summer replaces rain and slush. Now the sky is high and filled with fluffy rags of clouds, the air smells of rotten leaves and gossamer fly around. It's a time to go on picnics after school, secretly indulge in beer and spit off a cliffs, admiring the autumn-golden Beacon Hills. Stiles does not see Derek for ten days. All the news about his health he learns from Scott, a couple of times he calls Deaton and once even drops by, but Deaton purses his lips in his usual manner and says something along "he is best left alone for know" and does not allow him further than his mountain ash countertop.  
  
It’s not like Stiles really wants to see him anyway. Stiles is neither Mother Teresa nor Florence Nightingale. The memories of a strong adult man without his underwear, with his legs covered with stranger’s sperm and bits of vomit on his face, are the memories that Stiles would love to put into his most remote memory slots and forget like a bad dream. It is a strange jumble of feelings. Pity, hatred of the hunters, awkward squeamishness, something dark and stickily arousing, shame and exhausting powerless rage - this's in what Stiles is brewing in by himself. And by the end of the second week comes to the conclusion that he was perhaps to quick to deny any similarities with Nightingale. From this terrible emotional humus hatches something, he has not yet come up with a name for.   
Opting for burgers, Stiles obtains in Carl’s Jr. some fucking juicy cheesesteaks and resolutely goes straight to the loft.  
Derek opens the door and immediately crosses his arms on his chest, not allowing Stiles a single step inside.   
  
“What do you want?”  
  
Here goes the polite human communication 101, straight from the doorstep.   
  
Stiles demonstrates deliciously smelling plastic bag.  
  
“Food.”  
  
“I do not need your pity, Stiles. Goodbye,” Derek says dryly, barely glancing on the bag and closes the door. Does it need to be said, that Stiles puts his foot on the way? Whatever gaps in ethic or character flaws Derek sustains, he surely won’t crush his foot with a huge metal door.   
  
“I have spend all my pity while I was hauling you on myself. You owe me by the way. I had to dump my jacket afterwards,” Stiles says roughly, because roughness is an only thing that can probably brake past Derek’s barriers right now. Hit on his sore spot. And push for his consciousness.   
  
“Send me a check.”   
  
Or not the only thing.  
  
“Thank you,” Stiles suddenly says and something shifts in Derek’s expression. It slips like a shadow on the wall – fleeting and ephemeral, but Stiles manages to capture the confusion and bewilderment before his gloomy mug becomes sullen and emotionless again.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“I’m still a virgin. For this. So thank you. And I’m sorry.”  
  
Derek takes a deep breath, looks around the walls and looks back at Stiles, then silently nods and steps aside.  
  
“Juice or coke?” Stiles hears behind him, with a clang of a closing door.   
  
They never talk about it. Like it never happened. But it did, and he can’t keep ignoring it eventually.   
  
“Do you have nightmares?”   
  
They sit on the couch, having a bowl of chips between them, Stiles is the only one who actually eats from it and Derek just pretends he takes some for his beer. Derek’s profile remains profile. Stiles gets tired of waiting and is already preparing his next question, when he answers:  
  
“No.”  
  
One does not need to be a werewolf to hear a lie.   
  
“I do,” Stiles informs him casually, “and I want to suck you off.”   
  
Stiles is a pro in dislodging people off their balance. Linear conversations and thoughts are not his jam, and his constant bouncing from topic to topic is somehow like if the right-hander had suddenly struck from left. Get’s you not ready and in the open.   
Derek makes a strange chocking sound and finally turns to him.  
  
“What?” there is this disbelieving look in his eyes and even his eyebrows seam to be really fucking surprised by what he just heard.  
  
“I want to suck you and I have nightmares,” Stiles serenely repeats. “Which word exactly do you not understand? There in the depot, when I tucked you in your pants, I got to see your dick. So, you've got an amazing dick. Honestly. Not that I've seen a lot of dicks, well, except that in porn, then yes, a lot, but yours is just a champion-dick. I have dreams about it too.”   
  
“You have nightmares about my dick?”  
  
It is astonishing. It is unbelievable, but Stiles’ dumb monologue does not piss Derek Hale off. Derek Hale does not start growling or hissing about teeth and throats, does not try to kick Stiles out. He just pulls the corners of his mouth into a smile and his eyes, too, begin to laugh.  
  
“No. Nightmares separately, your dick separately,” Stiles explains pointedly, feeling how the flush spreads on his cheeks. “Of course, I’m no ace in blowjobs, but you owe me, so come on, uncover you tool and do something nice for Stiles. Let’s smash Stiles’ nightmares with that hammer.”   
  
“Oh God, shut up already,” Derek pleads, his cheekbones blushing. It's awfully beautiful, the blush emerging on his darker skin, and Stiles smiles, but then abruptly remembers about his cock and black fur around it. His mouth dries out and his heart starts to pound.   
When he reaches out to Derek’s crotch, for some reason Stiles is sure he will get to his planed destination without interference.  
  
The cock is almost the same as he remembered it. Almost, because the last time it was soft, end covered with the foreskin, as if it was scared and hiding there. But now there is much more bravery and you can say a proper “hello” to the head. And Stiles does, pulling the skin even more and giving an experimental lick. He eagerly rubs his nose on a warm woolly pubes, strokes the shaft with his fist, dives his tongue into the wet slit. Then takes it in his mouth. And somewhere above him Derek makes a moaning gasp, clutching at his shoulder.  
Stiles likes sucking. And he surely likes hearing low growls, loud pants and muffled exhales. The correlation is ones again around one to three but Stiles knows, that this times he counts not to anchor himself, not to grasp his sanity, but on the contrary. And he shamelessly creams his pants mere seconds after Derek comes down his throat.   
  
His mouth feels weird because of the bitter taste. Stiles has tried his own sperm - and who didn’t? But this taste is still different, and lying with his cheek on a softening member, Stiles licks his lips with consideration and strokes Derek’s thighs with both hands.  
  
“Come here,” Stiles hears hoarsely from above. Derek thrusts his hands under his arms and pulls him urgently up to a kiss his sticky lips.  
He is a good kisser. His kiss is unhurried but with that harbored greediness and so deep, that Stiles’ head starts spinning from the lack of oxygen.  
  
“You...” Derek starts but falls silent and just looks at Stiles with inquisitive eyes sliding over him, like he sees him for the first time.  
  
“Me,” Stiles says, waiting for continuation.   
  
“Forget it,” Derek wrinkles swiftly and strokes Stiles’ hair, petting his brow with a thumb. “Is my debt repaid?”   
  
“Partially,” Stiles turns his head and attempts to plant a kiss on Derek’s palm. “We haven’t pulled out the big guns yet.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I’m still a virgin,” Stiles reminds him and goes for broke. “Because of you, by the way, if you haven’t forgotten.”   
  
Yes. Like that. The fears stop being scary if you laugh at them. But for a moment he can’t even breathe.   
  
“To make you an adult?” after this long suffocating pause, Derek asks him with a small smile. And Stiles realizes that they both won. That night, those hunters, that fucking humiliation not giving them both a rest. Maybe not quite. Even surely not quite. But it's still a big step forward.  
  
“I do not need your pity!” Stiles perks smugly, bravely making one more step to their freedom, and laughs when Derek growls and knocks him on his back.


End file.
